


I don't want to be me anymore

by Gemini_Baby



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Coping Mechanisms, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is an Artist, Damian Wayne-centric, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is a good brother, May I say....
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemini_Baby/pseuds/Gemini_Baby
Summary: Dropping a drop of red ink and letting it travel was fascinating to watch. Sometimes he would turn or tilt the paper, letting the red ink blob travel in random motions, even he or the blob didn’t know about. The cute blob leaves a red trail behind in its wake, wherever it would go and Damian wouldjust watch.In a way, he and the ink blob are similar, he thinks. Only to ponder the next moment, that the ink blob is washable, unlike him. Unlike Damian. The effects of the ink are reversible and it not only leaves a trail of red behind. It leaves the trace of beauty, too. Leaving a memory behind as of something beautiful. Same can’t be said about him. He had set on a path - an irreversible path.OR: Frustrated from things, events and people around him, Damian turns to the one thing that has never let him down before:art. He turns towards art and gore drawings for coping. But not many people are welcoming of his coping mechanism, just like they aren't with most of his hobbies.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 41
Kudos: 197
Collections: Comfortember 2020, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne's Parent





	I don't want to be me anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Written for today's comfortember prompt: Lashing out <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy

Dropping a drop of red ink and letting it travel was fascinating to watch. Sometimes he would turn or tilt the paper, letting the red ink blob travel in random motions, even he or the blob didn’t know about. The cute blob leaves a red trail behind in its wake, wherever it would go and Damian would _just watch_.

In a way, he and the ink blob are similar, he thinks. Only to ponder the next moment, that the ink blob is washable, unlike him. Unlike Damian. The effects of the ink are reversible and it not only leaves a trail of red behind. It leaves the trace of beauty, too. Leaving a memory behind as of something beautiful. Same can’t be said about him. He had set on a path - an irreversible path. 

For all the talks of redemption, all the others also like to add things such as ‘ _there is no coming back if one crosses the line’_. Damian wants to ask what about the person who was already on the other side of the line, not knowing that it had even been crossed in the first place, since his eyes first opened in this world, or even, _not knowing that such a line ever existed_. But the thought that the one who opens their eyes already on the other side of the line is not a person, that they are a monster shuts his questions up.

Leaving nothing but another set of claws eating him from inside behind.

He feels empty. He feels numb.

He feels nothing. He feels too much.

The contrast is suffocating.

It eats him whole from the inside and throws him into something akin to chest pain on the outside.

Damian rubs his thumb on the paper, where some of the thickness of the ink blob still remains, smudging it and making the texture a bit realistic one. It screams dried blood. He presses the thumb now smudged with some red ink on paper. He presses it on different areas of the neck and the clothes of the figure, precisely. It gives a look of a tired and bloodied person. The person’s blood has dried but his wounds are still fresh.

Something again similar to him. Damian’s misdeeds are in the past, his hands red with the blood of the victims. The blood dried. It is all in the past. Yet he still carries the scent and stench of dead bodies with him, leaving others suffocating as their paths collide with Damian.

Drawing and painting sometimes love to remind him of his parallels with art and the subjects but it doesn’t hurt the same way many other things do.

He dips his finger in the ink bottle this time. He rubs his two fingers together, smudging the ink. Then uses his index finger as he makes thin streaks of blood in the figure’s hair. If anyone looked only at the hair, they would have thought hair dye with little streaks of red dye. But the whole painting paints a different picture.

The way the blood streaks are in the hair, drawn by his index finger meant to portray someone had hurt the person _just like that_. With _loving fingers and affectionate hands._ Had been hurt by someone who loved the person. Someone who was gentle with him at times and yet clawed him at other times. Someone with a twisted meaning and sense of _love_.

The black and white inked sketch of a person, only coloured with the red ink as blood is...not something people put on refrigerators as their kids’ drawings to show it off to other people. But Damian loves this project of his. And this ink sketch, and the other sketches of his too, is cathartic. It helps him cope. It helps him not think of...other things...or other measures. Some things he was really considering some months ago, after all the lectures, benching, and attitudes of classmates.

It helps in curbing the negative thoughts and acting out on those. It helps him in resisting the urge to punch the rogues harder. It helps him in not becoming ‘the murderous Robin’ from ‘the violent Robin’. It helps in tarnishing Richard’s legacy less.

_(He can’t imagine how much Richard would have been hurt when he passed his legacy to him. Tries to imagine the hurt Richard must have felt when he made someone like him Robin, inflicting a deep wound on his own heart. He finds himself failing at imagining the actual intensity of that pain Richard must have gone through.)_

His nails, some years ago, used to have some flesh stuck in them. A remnant of what he had done. A reminder of what he was.

His nails, now, are red, both literally and figuratively since his fingers are currently dipped in ink and also because some things don’t wash away. Water and time do not always fade things away. Sometimes they stay there. As a reminder. As a memorial. He is no one. He is nothing. All his nails have is the remorse of the flesh stuck in his nails, back then, and a reminder of him trying to tear his hair out or scratching his scalp too much, some nights.

Right now, he takes a deep breath. He dries his hands and leaves the ink sketch to dry.

He turns on his laptop. After it turns on to life, Damian logs into his blog. There are many comments; compliments, suggestions, feedback and questions. First, he answers the compliments one with gratitude. The suggestions and feedback are by some of his favourite artists and fellow-bloggers. He loves the community. They all are always encouraging each other and being nice. The tips they have suggested are good. 

\-------------------------------------------

  
  
  
  
Next month is coming up soon and so is the event about gorey depictions in artwork Damian wonders, while tossing in his bed, the merits and demerits of participating. The pros and cons of submitting and uploading the artwork, sharing it online.

He knows he can't show even the most watered-down versions of the topics he usually draws, the types of pictures he paints, to his family or friends or worse, _classmates_. 

Everyone is already afraid, no, _terrified,_ of what Damian can do or what he might do. If they come across something like that, they would think that this is the proof of how far Damian can go. It would be just another evidence for them, cementing the fact that Damian is just a ruthless killing machine. Nevermind the fact that art and the things he draws are helping him cope and stopping him from doing just that. Stopping him from becoming a ruthless killing machine; no heart and soul, and no will of his own either; being wielded by others like a weapon.

He weighs the pros and cons as he stares at the ceiling of his room. The ceiling of the roof is boring. The pattern the paint chips hanging there, on the verge of falling, is something interesting to stare at, to thought about the different patterns they make, every time he glances at them. He should tell Father when they have meetings. He never says anything about it. He is not sure why. But those little chips are something different from his plain and almost overall empty room. He dreads the day he would return home from school to find them already having made changes to his room. Without his permission. Without his agreement. Every time ‘choice’ has been presented in front of him as an ‘option’ and then taken away from him at the last second, revealing that there was never an ‘option’. Then him being blamed for his sour mood as a result. Because apparently, it is wrong for him to be angry or even sad at that treatment. Because it apparently makes him an ungrateful brat. The treatment has been constant all his life. Back when he was with his Grandfather. And even now. It is not a much different place. He found it out soon enough. The only different thing is he is not ordered to kill and rather lectured on having done so in the past; have been told that he should have known better by at least half of the cape community and not in kind words.

He gets it. _He gets it._

He reeks of bloodshed.

One look at him invokes the feeling of disgust.

He doesn’t have to wonder the _‘why’_ for that one. Doesn’t have to dwell on it.

For he too shares the sentiment every time he looks in a mirror. 

He tries to distract himself from those thoughts for now by again contemplating the pros and cons.

On one hand, if he participates and only posts online...he can maybe come up with a pseud, or he can go as himself. He will have to check the rules again to confirm this. Either way, it would allow him a form of distance. Moreover, he can participate in an event and...feel less bad about drawing that specific type of content. It can also help him in being a part of a community for something he likes to do rather than being part of those communities for things he has been and is forced to do. That can give him some peace of mind. And a break from that suffocating feeling he feels the most part of his days.

On other hand, he is still learning how to draw digitally and is nowhere near having mastered the basics of it. So he would have to do this traditionally. And that is going to be a problem. Not the drawing. But privacy. Or more accurately: the lack of privacy. For this house lacks privacy and wears it with ‘pride’. Damian _hates_ that. It usually means he can’t indulge in most of his hobbies because he wants to play instruments in peace or read aloud books or dance in solitude, or do any of those things alone in peace with some privacy. He never felt comfortable with anyone around. Whenever he tried it in the past years, it resulted in video footages and photos, completely disregarding his privacy. When he protested, the amount of the photo-taking and footages recorded _increased_ . Because ‘it was him being adorable protesting things like that’ or ‘him not being open with them recording or being in presence when he was trying to do some leisure activity called for one logical measure: photos and video recordings’. The exact opposite of what he wanted. Of what he himself expressed explicitly. Several times. It had gotten to the point Damian had stopped indulging in most of his hobbies. And he was pretty frustrated. Both because of them disregarding his wish for privacy and his complaints about being not comfortable _every time_ , and him not being able to indulge in his hobbies for past months. So him drawing in his sketchbook also meant...he could _not_ leave his sketchbook at home.

Sighing heavily, he turned to his side and went to sleep.

\---------------------------

The prompts had been out two weeks early and he had gotten to work. He had checked the rules. Unfortunately, pseuds are not allowed to take part in this event, so he had to participate with an account named “Damian G. G. Wayne”.

He had already started his pencil sketches on the first week’s prompt. He had what Timothy would have called: a head start. So now, in the first week of the new month, he had been uploading his entries on time.

A couple of days, flashbacks and nightmares of him being impaled on Heretic’s sword haunt him. So the other day, he draws a child impaled on a long sword. The nightmares of that particular event reduce to a bit after that.

He adds more details to the sketch in the days that succeed that day. This piece is a lot of gore. More details. More symbolism. It feels weird for him to say that he had fun with this piece a lot. But he did. And it also helped him in coping with it. So there is that.

He takes his sketchbook everywhere with him. He feels forced to. Tried everything within him to guard the item, holding it close to him and not letting the item out of his sight.

But fate has other plans.

Fate has decided to doom Damian.

The week he has been having has been already rough. He has benched from patrol for two weeks and is benched for unseeable future. They had been firm that there was no room for negotiation. So here Damian is. Without an outlet. For weeks. Feeling suffocated in the manor. Dealing with bullies for at least seven hours daily. Speaking of bullies...one of them - the head of them; Oscar Glass, is all but running towards him. Damian notices him too late as he is slammed by him full force being knocked into the locker and his possessions all falling to the floor. Before he can recover adequately from it all, Glass is slamming him into the locker door and yelling about how Damian has pushed him. Damian wonders why. Then he sees Ms. Green turning towards the corridor and he is left wondering no longer. Of course, he would be the one painted as evil and bad. Figures. What else is new.

Seems like it was all planned because Oscar looks prepared for doing it all and yet somehow appearing as ‘the innocent party’. Then he ‘untangles’ himself from Damian, stepping back and looks down. Following his gaze, Damian looks down too. He realizes with horror what has happened; the thing he dreaded the most, as Glass quickly snatches his open sketchbook from the floor and runs towards Ms. Green to complain about the books, horror -- faux horror written all over his face.

Damian doesn’t remember how and when he ended up at the principal’s office, outside, in the car and outside the manor. As he walks towards the gate, he realizes that he had been dissociating all this time. 

He faintly remembers Alfred telling him that Grayson wants to see him in the studies. Pennyworth’s tone was indicator enough for what matters Grayson wishes to see him. His feet carrying him to the study on their own. Father is on a space mission leaving Grayson incharge behind. Damian doesn’t know what would happen when he steps inside the room. He doesn’t know if he would even be allowed to explain himself.

_(He distantly wonders if they all would have been happy...or able to live a happy life if Grandfather had succeeded in taking control of his body as that is the actual reason he is here, after all.)_

The gritted yell of _“Damian”_ in Grayson’s voice laced with anger and frustration is an answer enough to all his questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Dick play a bigger part in the next chapter <3

**Author's Note:**

> kudos, comments, bookmarks and user subscriptions are always welcome and appreciated 💚


End file.
